


Bring me back

by TheOccasionalSquirrel



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Childhood Friends, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Gay Keith (Voltron), Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Olympic Swimmer Keith (Voltron), Olympic swimmer lance (Voltron), Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Swimmer Keith (Voltron), Swimmer Lance (Voltron), cause theyre both professional swimmers, is there a difference? i'm including both, swimmer back musclessssss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:01:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22789915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOccasionalSquirrel/pseuds/TheOccasionalSquirrel
Summary: Homesickness. Keith’s old friend, his enemy. A pat on the shoulder, a knife in his chest.There, a constant gnawing on his heart, and then gone—lost in the winds and kerosene of an airplane headed to Cuba.With his swimming career nearing it's end, Keith is returning to his home, wondering if there is anything left for him there.a little bit of swimmer boys written for my sweet husband's birthday <3
Relationships: Keith & Lance (Voltron), Keith & Pidge | Katie Holt, Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 77





	Bring me back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Erinastasia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erinastasia/gifts).



_ I want to go home _ .

A phrase as familiar as swimming. As familiar as breathing. 

The referee blew the whistle and all of Keith’s thoughts were gone—the only thing in his mind was the butterfly stroke. Swift, tactical motions and he was off. For the first 100m, he was no longer Keith Kogane, Olympic gold medalist and world record holder. He was a machine—swift, elegant, merciless.

But getting lost in the movements was not an option. 150m into the 400m race Keith became  _ acutely _ aware of the man swimming next to him. Aware in a way you can only be if you’ve grown up with the person—learned to  _ swim _ with said person.

Lance McClain, who claimed Olympic gold within the same hour as Keith.

Lance McClain, who learned to swim within the same hour as Keith.

Lance McClain, whose heart broke within the same hour as Keith’s.

Maybe that was why Keith knew him so well. There are only so many things you can experience with a person before you learn to know them better than your own self.

That is why, 350m into the 400m race, tied with Keith, Lance decided to let him win.

And Keith was helpless to stop him. It was a subtle, almost unnoticeable thing, but Keith  _ knew _ Lance—the powerful movements of his muscles as he tore through the waves, the grin on his face as he broke through water. 

Keith won the race by 5 milliseconds, but it was enough. He pulled himself out of the water and removed his goggles only to watch Lance walk away.

A minute later, he was crowned winner.

Two minutes later, there was a call for Lance to receive the second place award.

It took 15 minutes and a ragged, breathless Keith running through the locker rooms trying to find Lance to realize that he was gone.

_ I want to go home _ .

“I really hope your face looked better when they took your picture,” his coach mumbled, eyes trained on her laptop screen. Keith could barely make out the reflection of the computer screen in her glasses, but if Pidge won’t show him directly what she’s working on, he knew not to ask.

“I want to go home,” he grumbled, shuffling so his face is half hidden by his hoodie.

“Well,” Pidge sighed, closing her laptop and putting it back in her bag. “I guess you deserve a break,” she said, her eyes obviously analyzing his current state. 

He grumbled some more. 

Pidge rolled her eyes. 

“Fine, I’ll book your tickets to California—”   
  
“No!” Keith cut her off—louder than he needed, considering her glare, but… “I want to go to Cuba,” he confessed.

California never felt like home to him. No matter how hard his mother had tried. 

Home was Cuba. Home was his old swim club, the ocean, the beach, the McClains.

One McClain in particular.

Pidge sighed, again. Where Keith grumbled, she sighed. Communication was funny like that.

  
  
  


The green checkmark that followed the booking confirmation was the most beautiful thing Keith had seen in his life.

  
  
  


Homesickness. Keith’s old friend, his enemy. A pat on the shoulder, a knife in his chest.

There, a constant gnawing on his heart, and then gone—lost in the winds and kerosene of an airplane headed to Cuba.

He felt his heart break and remake itself over and over again. As he boarded the plane and watched New York disappear beneath him. As he saw his home—like a mirage in the desert and then suddenly real beneath his feet. As he listened to the familiar Cuban dialect—clear and familiar and  _ homey— _ everywhere. And his heart ached to speak the words, but socializing had never been his forte.

He thanked the taxi driver and tipped generously. He took his bag and watched the car drive off.

In hindsight, impulsively going to Cuba was not… his brightest idea. Keith was lucky his old home was still standing. He was lucky he always carried his house key with him. He watched the California keychain jingle as he turned the lock to his Cuban home.

Dust and memories hit him like a hurricane.

_ He is six years old and running around the house leaving wet trails of salt water everywhere. The smell of his dad making pancakes in the kitchen floods his senses. The sound of Lance’s laughter overpowers it. _

He took a step.

_ He is eight, and  _ there _ , there’s the place his dad put his first trophy—a shelf in the living room visible from the hallway. Keith was so happy. _

He entered the living room. There was a shadow on the wall where the shelf used to be. The house was nothing but a skeleton—the wind blew and the waves crashed and the bones of the house sang a story. 

_ He is eleven, and Lance is here for a sleepover. They’re cuddled up on the couch, too invested in the movie to listen to the ocean outside. Or, at least Lance is. Keith can hear the call of the waters loud and clear. But not the waves outside. No. It’s  _ Lance.

_ Blue, blue, blue.  _

_ Bluer than the sky and bluer than the ocean.  _

_ And for a moment, Keith is struck with jealousy. Who is Lance to have captured a part of the ocean? Who is Lance, then, to show it off so shamelessly? Who is Lance, and why does he have the bluest eyes Keith has ever seen? _

He tugged on the curtain and looked out the window. The colors were not as he remembered—more drained, more gray. The ocean looked stormy, and the clouds heavy with rain. Seemed like he’d have to stay the night. With a storm rolling in, he wouldn’t get back to the hotel on time.

He really hated storms.

_ He is thirteen, and he wants to kiss Lance. Kiss him in the doorway and in the water and when Lance smiles brightly at him, proudly showing off his gold medal.  _

_ He wants to kiss Lance, and he thinks Lance wants to kiss him too. _

_ But— _

He  _ really _ hated storms.

_ It was a tragic accident, but really, what other kind of accident is there? _

_ Keith lost his dad to a house fire when he was still a teen—his father had been a firefighter, you see. A hero. _

_ But when he died, Keith had nowhere else to go. He’d been forced to move to the States to live with his mom, which meant no more Lance. No more swimming at his old swim club, no more ocean, no more Cuba, no more McClains, no more  _ Lance.

_ His mother was kind and good and considerate. She supported his dreams and ambitions and was always there for him. But his mother couldn’t bring Lance back. She couldn’t bring back the home he’d known. _

He had to do that himself.

And here he was. Standing in the mildly dusty home—he knew his mother had hired someone to take care of it—drowning in memories. 

“Welcome home, Keith,” someone said in Spanish, and the words were a lightning strike.

The words were a heart on adrenaline, the words were a cup of coffee slid next to him, the words were a splash of saltwater in his face.

The words were the last grains of sand in an hourglass before it turned, and the sand began its journey anew.

Keith turned, and there was Lance. In the doorway, looking like he’d seen a miracle.

And maybe it  _ was _ a miracle. 

Deep within the library of his memories, he found the one of his last argument with Lance. Their last actual conversation. Their last kiss.

_ He is twenty-one, and the hour is late and the beach is wrong, but at least he’s got Lance’s hand in his. At least that is right, right?  _

_ But Keith knows, knows something’s wrong deep within his bones.  _

_ Lance is too far away. His thoughts are somewhere else, his shoulder is too stiff to lean on, his hand is too limp to hold. _

_ His words are weak, but they are enough to hurt. _

_ “Come home with me,” Lance says—but it feels more as if he’s pressing on a bruise, as if he’s leaning on a twisted ankle.  _

_ Keith stops walking, letting Lance’s hand slip out of his. And the record skips— _

_ “I can’t.” _

_ And the record skips— _

_ “I have a career here.” _

_ And the record skips— _

_ “You can have a career in Cuba.” _

_ And it hurts. It slashes and it bruises, and Keith is only twenty-one but everything hurts.  _

_ He wants to hold Lance’s hand. He wants to kiss Lance. He wants to wake up next to Lance in the morning, to sunshine and the smell of sea salt instead of alarms blaring in hotel rooms during tournaments. He wants a simple love story, and a home together with Lance. But things are never that easy, are they? _

_ “You have to understand,” Keith begs, but the waters have heard his prayer and left him waiting. Lance knows this story, knows the way it ends, and yet he listens to Keith say it again and again and again. If only to memorize the cadence of his voice. “I care for you, Lance,” he says, but he means  _ ‘I love you.’ 

_ Lance takes Keith’s hand and it means  _ ‘I love you, too.’

_ And they stay like that. One hand holding the other, one heart breaking the other. With only the water to witness their hurt.  _

Keith’s legs were weak—his entire heart was weak. He had not expected to see Lance so soon, not after—

_ “One day, you will follow me back home,” Lance says, forehead pressed to Keith’s, their breaths mingling together.  _

_ And Keith is a weak man. He is weak to the stormy sea in Lance’s eyes, he is weak to the determination in his lover’s voice. “I will,” he promises. _

_ “But not today.” _

His heart was stuck in his throat, and the words wouldn’t come out.

_ He is fourteen and he misses Lance. _

Oh, he looked the same. He looked familiar. Those eyes stolen from the ocean and that skin kissed by the sun.

_ He is fifteen and he wants to kiss Lance. _

He’s kissed him since then, but it’s been so long, and Keith can never get enough. 

_ He is sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, twenty. He’s kissed some boys and won some competitions. But the only important thing is Lance, Lance, Lance. And if he can keep on chasing after this boy by being a skilled swimmer, he will take it. He will do it.  _

Lance was taller in person. He looked stronger in person. Keith wanted to run up into his arms, but his feet were stuck glued to the floor. 

_ He is twenty-six years old, and he’s just watched the love of his life throw a race. And Keith knows—in his soul, made from the same sunlight and seafoam as Lance’s—that Lance is done. He will not play this game anymore. _

But he needed to know for sure.

“Why did you—” he started, stumbled, blew the dust off their scratched vinyl. “Why did you throw the race?” He asked, and the question hung in the air, suspended like a bird mid-flight, flying from one end to another—from one mouth to another. 

And, like the fall of a bird magnificent, their tranquil spell was broken by Lance’s laughter. It echoed and filled the room—the house, Keith’s heart—until everything was as light as a feather, and Keith wondered why he was worried in the first place.

Lance’s laughter slowly quietened, but his smile stayed there, on his face, as if his face could take no other shape than a gentle grin. 

“I missed you,” Keith confessed, and watched Lance wince. Keith chuckled—his Spanish had become rusty with disuse, he knew that. It was still fun to coax reactions out of Lance, even after all this time. 

But this one, well, this one was different. There was a fondness in Lance’s eyes—something unique to him, not something stolen from the sea or ripped out of the sky. His eyes were gentle, and with each step, they drew closer to Keith. 

Keith felt himself being pulled to that fondness, taken with the tide. 

He felt a blush crawl up his throat and on his cheeks as a traitor, as Lance stood in front of him, only slightly taller—like he’s always been—and smelling like coffee. 

Keith took a step back- Lance’s presence was overwhelming, and at this proximity, Keith couldn’t be held responsible for what he did- but he found he had nowhere else to go. 

Lance’s presence hit him like a wave Keith couldn’t get back up from. There was no other way to go than down, down, down. 

So he reached out—with his heart, with his arms—and wrapped his hands around Lance's waist. And Lance, in turn, cupped Keith's cheek, his hand like gentle sunshine on his skin. 

Keith, a man so starved for light, and Lance, a man made of sun. 

He wanted to bury his head into Lance's neck, chase that sunlight, that sweet smell of coffee. But Lance's gaze kept him locked in place. And he stayed there, when Lance leaned in, cheek to cheek, and whispered,  _ "I missed you, too,"  _ into Keith's ear. 

And Keith couldn't help himself.

He caved. 

A man starved of light, of affection, of love. A man whose heart was torn apart and kept between two seas—two countries, two homes. With a turn of his head, he made it whole again.

He kissed Lance, and Lance kissed back. And the world was a better place for it.

Lance kissed him, and he kissed back. And Keith was home again.


End file.
